


Poetry and scavenger hunts, the arômes de youth

by chortlegalortle



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Futakuchi appears for all of three sentences, Hanamaki Takahiro is a Little Shit, M/M, Matsukawa is an "entrepreneur", Oikawa RAISED Matsukawa how dare you imply otherwise, french poetry I’m not going to translate sorry too lazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:21:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28516341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chortlegalortle/pseuds/chortlegalortle
Summary: Matsukawa Issei likes snacks. Sometimes he runs out of snack money. So if he decides that passing off whatever nonsense was in Akaashi's French literature coursebook as very personalized, very romantic poetry just before the upcoming White Day at the frankly very good rate of for 100 yen per line, that's his prerogative because everyone gets hungry sometimes.Unfortunately, his otherwise excellent scheme goes slightly awry when he receives an anonymous note in return that leads him on a wild goose chase trying to find the author.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 10
Kudos: 68





	1. The Scheme Goes Awry

**Author's Note:**

> Just silly nonsense fluff.

As Matsukawa stretched his legs out underneath the table and waved his hand briefly at the kind patron he’d just assisted, he grinned. Kuroo had called him an _entrepreneur_ , and, frankly, Kuroo was right. It wasn’t his fault that no one else had come up with the idea. Sure, romantic holidays are clichéd and capitalist thievery for corporations selling greeting cards, chocolates, cookies, flowers – did corporations sell flowers? Probably. Anyway, he’s only getting money that the corporations aren’t, and it’s barely any, honestly, and it’s about competition, isn’t it, so it’s fine.

“Could I have 3 lines please?” the next guy asked as he sat down in the chair, sliding 300 yen across the table.

“Course you can, just let me think for a moment.”

Matsukawa squeezed his eyes shut, pursing his lips and exhaling. Then he opened them and tilted his head the other direction, looking up at the ceiling. Then tapped his pen on his chin. Then made his best concentration face, continued tapping his chin, and slid his eyes down to his phone on his lap, scrolling a little bit and reading off the screen as he began to write on the notebook paper in front of him:

_Vieilles verdures, vieux galons !_

_Ô croquignoles végétales !_

_Fleurs fantasques des vieux Salons !_

He held it out to the requester, smiling at him.

“How do you say it?” he asked.

Avoiding any visible cringing, he did his best French accent while dramatically reading the foreign letters to the best of his ability. Gotta get those exclamation points across!

A nod. “And what’s it mean?”

“Sweet as sugar, sweet as night! Nothing sweeter! Than our perfect love!”

Another nod. “Thanks.” He left.

So he had no idea how to read or speak French. Who cares? It was just some pocket money for the snack machines, and people left happy, and if someone’s girlfriend coincidentally knew French and caught their boyfriend in a lie, well… _he_ wasn’t going to face any repercussions. He’s doing a service, really, probably lots of these handsome young gentlemen would be on the receiving end of some appreciative action. He’ll just rest easy knowing that that is a _fact_.

Besides, his makeshift business would only last until White Day this weekend anyway, so it’s not like anyone would find him sitting in the same spot in the Natural Sciences library like he’d been doing today. The last-minute ads he’d taped in the men’s bathroom were very clear that this was a Monday-through-Friday, 2pm-to-3pm event-for-this-week-only.

* * *

Half an hour later, Matsukawa twisted back and forth in his seat in a feeble attempt at a stretch. Only fifteen minutes left. He was really starting to get into it now:

_De mon esprit humilié_

_Faire ton lit et ton domaine;_

_— Infâme à qui je suis lié_

_Comme le forçat à la chaîne_

And he did _not_ appreciate the raised eyebrow at the end of his dramatic reading, thank you very much, sir, he was doing people a _favor_.

“So what’s it mean?”

“Well, you know, it’s hard to translate word for word…” He trailed off, looking as gracious as he could.

“Women like romantic bullshit.” As if he knew what women liked. “It’s like… about how fleeting love is, so you’ve got to hold on to it while it lasts, you know? That kind of shit.”

He could’ve sworn he heard a choking cough nearby, but before he could turn his head to find the culprit, the skeptical brunette in front of him nodded slowly and walked off. The next guy took his place. It looked like the line went on for miles, people staring down at their phones or books as they waited.

“Hey, thanks for coming. How many lines do you want?”

And so, Matsukawa continued with his dramatic readings and spur of the moment “translations” and the occasional summary of what it meant when it was just “too difficult to translate directly.” Everything had gone swimmingly for his first day as a … _business owner_. He snickered to himself as he packed up his bag and considering what he’d like to go grab from the snack machine outside the building when he was interrupted by a tap at his shoulder.

“Excuse me.”

“Sorry man, you’ll have to come back tomorrow if you want another poem.”

“Ah,” he looked uncomfortable, “I don’t. Actually, someone asked me to give you this? Said you’d understand?”

Matsukawa’s enviable eyebrows jumped straight up to his hairline, as he reached out to take the folded piece of paper and nodded his thanks. The other student dashed off in a hurry, making no eye contact with anyone else.

Shrugging, Matsukawa unfolded the paper and groaned.

 _Es-tu douce ou dure ?_ _  
Est-il sensible ou moqueur,  
Ton cœur ?  
Je n'en sais rien, mais je rends grâce à la nature  
D'avoir fait de ton cœur mon maître et mon vainqueur._

_À demain, ma douc(h)e. ;)_

Shit. A _winky_ face? Did someone figure it out? Did someone know he was only a top-notch bullshitter rather than a fluent French speaker? Were they trying to catch him out now? His eyes darted around this part of the library, but no one looked particularly suspicious.

Ah, fuck. Now he’d have to go fess up and ask Akaashi what it said.

* * *

He knocked on the door to Akaashi and Bokuto’s apartment, looking over the page again, as if he would suddenly be able to understand French now, as opposed to 20 minutes prior.

“Oh, hello, Matsukawa. Come in.”

“Thanks, Akaashi.”

“Bokuto, Matsukawa’s here!”

Footsteps slammed across the apartment as Bokuto came into the entry hall, beaming as ever. “Hey! What’s up? Wanna play games?”

“Nah,” Matsukawa waved him off. “I’ve got some more to do for an assignment tonight, so I can’t stay long.”

“Aw, fine,” Bokuto all but whined in response. Akaashi was already patting his arm consolingly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the other hand. “What’s up?”

“I actually came for Akaashi. I need help with French.”

Akaashi’s eyebrow raised, intrigued. “You don’t know any French, last I heard.”

“Exactly.”

The other eyebrow went up. “Continue.”

Matsukawa sighed and handed over his anonymous note, watching Akaashi’s face for his reaction. By the end, he seemed to be fighting off a smile, the corners of his mouth twitching as he pursed his lips.

“Who gave you this?”

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“What I just said. Come on. Just tell me what it says, please.”

“Tell me who gave it to you. Why they gave it to you, too.”

A second sigh left his mouth, a sigh of a long-suffering fool who had apparently been caught in his perfectly good scheme.

“I don’t know, I said. Someone else came up and gave it to me.”

“Didn’t you ask them?”

“Well, no, they said someone else gave it to them to give to me, so…”

“Matsukawa, my man,” Bokuto began. “Are you… are you being _stalked?_ Is that what you need help with?”

Huh. Matsukawa hadn’t even entertained that idea, because why would anyone be stalking him?

“If they were stalking him, they’d probably know he doesn’t know any French, Bokuto.”

“Oh, good point, Akaashi, good point. You’re so smart.” And then he was falling all over himself to praise his boyfriend more, pressing kisses onto his face and pinching at his cheeks.

Matsukawa coughed. Akaashi fixed him with a stare.

The staring match continued for several moments before Matsukawa heaved yet another sigh.

“So, I’ve recently started a business and – ”

“Excuse me, what?”

“Whoa! Congrats!”

“Yeah, I am… offering some short-term services until White Day.” Akaashi looked scandalized, and even Bokuto’s eyebrows were raised in surprise now. “Ah, not like that. What I mean is that I… well, I may be offering to write short poems for people that they can give to their girlfriends for White Day. No harm, no foul.”

“So the person who gave you this asked for one of your poems?”

He replied with a shrug. “It’s possible.”

“So why French?”

Matsukawa had the foresight to look embarrassed rather than proud of himself as he explained the situation to Akaashi.

Last weekend, Oikawa had hosted some friends for beers and games. All present parties had been in attendance, and after Matsukawa had been out of the running for the Smash Bros tournament, he chose to avoid his boredom by flipping through the pages of Akaashi’s book, which had been left out nearby. He had taken photos of some of the pages at random, and he of course had had every good intention of actually looking up what the poems meant – Matsukawa was nothing if not a slave to his own curiosity – but hadn’t managed to get around to it before his current business idea struck.

His grin fell off his face when he noticed Akaashi staring at him with a small frown. He didn’t think it was _that_ bad, it was only a course-book, not a diary or anything.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have rifled through your book.”

“Isn’t anyone asking you what it says when you give them something?”

“Well, yeah,” began Matsukawa, scratching at the back of his head embarrassedly, “but I just explain it away or make something up.”

“Ah.” Yikes. Akaashi did _not_ approve.

“Mm. So… the note? Can you tell me what it says?”

Akaashi looked at the paper in his hands, reading through again. This time he was smiling, at least, so maybe he wasn’t as upset as he seemed initially.

“Right, well. The main bit is actually from a poet by the name of Verlaine. It _is_ basically a love poem – the last bit here talks about how the author is a slave to the other person’s heart. There’s more to the whole thing, but it’s wondering about what the result will be when the author’s fate is up to this other person.”

“Wow. You’re not fucking with me?”

“Hey!”

“No, Matsukawa, I am not. The person who wrote this note to you, however, seems to be.”

 _Interesting_.

“Do go on.”

“They’ve made a sort of, cross-language pun? They’ve put a term of endearment, like calling someone sweetheart. But they’ve _also_ put in a little ‘h’ there in parentheses – it literally turns it into the word for a ‘shower’ in French, but I’m going to read between the lines of the whole situation and suggest they’re not an idiot, but instead turning it into an English insult. Calling you an inconsiderate asshole, more or less.”

Akaashi smirked at him and Bokuto was flat out guffawing. Matsukawa yanked the paper back into his own hand, skimming through it again, like he’d suddenly be able to match up what Akaashi said with what was written word for word.

Matsukawa met Akaashi’s grin. “Thanks, Akaashi.”

“Yeah, sure thing,” came the acknowledgement as they walked to the door. Matsukawa was in the hallway before Akaashi called out to him again. “It also says they’ll see you tomorrow.”


	2. The Unknown Entity aka The Enigma Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More notes are delivered to Matsukawa every afternoon and he quickly becomes enamored with whoever writes them. Oikawa's pretty concerned he's going to be kidnapped and murdered, but Matsukawa is eager to meet The Unknown Entity anyway once the last note finally sets a time and place. 
> 
> He just hopes it is not actually the old lady librarian. Why do people have to keep bringing her up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is dialogue heavy, but it was silly and fun to write and I hope you enjoy. Thanks for joining me on my first (but potentially not my last) Matsuhana adventure. :) :) 
> 
> And, while I am too #lazy to translate, the three poems from Chapter 1 are super easy to find online if you're curious. They don't mean anything in particular, honestly, I just picked pretty randomly by searching the first poets I thought of.  
> Rimbaud – Ce qu'on dit au poète à propos de fleurs  
> Baudelaire – Fleurs de mal  
> Verlaine – Es tu brune ou blonde ?

“So what you’re telling me,” Iwaizumi began as they flopped into seats outside for lunch on that Friday, “is that you’ve been getting these anonymous notes every day when you finish up?” A nod. “And they’ve always got actual French poetry, and then some sort of insult?” Another nod. “And this is… enticing to you, somehow?” And then a third.

“Exactly.”

“I don’t get it, Mattsun.”

“Well you _wouldn’t_ get it, would you, Oikawa?”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” he asked, offended.

“I don’t get it either, Shittykawa, don’t fret.”

“Who _does_ something like this? They’re awesome.” Matsukawa breathed out in awe. At the resultant blank stares from Iwaizumi and Oikawa across the table, he let out a very aggrieved groan. “Come _on_ , it’s hilarious! Turning the whole thing on its head to leave me French poetry I can’t understand? And then finding creative ways to call me an idiot to boot? It’s like… the best kind of flirting I’ve ever had.” He sounded sort of embarrassed, which his two closest friends relished, frankly speaking, because if anyone could stand to be embarrassed more often, it was definitely pain-in-the-ass, never-stops-tormenting, never-stops-trolling Matsukawa. 

“The most asinine flirting I’ve ever heard of, then.”

“But what do you know about flirting, Iwa-ch - _Shit!_ That _hurt!”_ Oikawa rubbed his arm.

“Okay,” Matsukawa acknowledged, “Okay, so, maybe it’s not flirting, and _maybe_ it’s weird. Fine. I’m having a blast though. I’m really looking forward to this afternoon.”

The mystery-note-writer had indeed been getting notes to Matsukawa every afternoon at the end of his hour in the library. Always a different delivery person. He never saw the same person lurking around the shelves like they were watching for his reaction or anything, either. After the 2nd note, in which his secret admirer – because Matsukawa _was_ 100% taking it as flirting even if it was not – wrote a few lines waxing poetic about farmland and then called him “potato fucker.” The third note included a line about shopping or something (Akaashi had informed him it was from a French song) and called him “an ugly drunk’s bastard son.” But the note from yesterday coyly invited him to meet at 3:15 at the basketball gym - after writing that he was "uglier than a pineapple that had gone moldy 3 months prior." It was now 1:30. He was going to meet The Unknown Entity in less than two hours.

“What if they _kidnap_ you, Mattsun?”

“More like asshole-nap you.”

“You’re less funny than The Unknown Entity, Iwaizumi.” Matsukawa’s eyeroll was practically tangible and Iwaizumi deflated a little.

“What if they _chop you up and spread out your limbs around Tokyo_?”

“Seems unlikely, I’m a pretty big dude. I’ll be fine.”

“They could _drug_ you!”

“I will text you as I arrive at the gym, and if I do not contact you by 3:30, you are allowed to call the police.”

Oikawa still didn’t look pleased with the situation, gnawing on his lip. Iwaizumi’s eyeroll was so intense that Matsukawa kind of admired it.

“I’ll be fine. You know where I’ll be. Akaashi and Bokuto know. It’s really fine.”

“Okay, but… what if you’re, you know, disappointed?”

“Disappointed? I want to shake this person’s hand and commend them on a job well done.”

“That’s not what I mean!” Oikawa pouted. “I mean, you’re pretty… _into_ this entire bizarre set-up. What if you meet them and they’re not what you imagined?”

“What do you mean?"

"Like... like it turns out to be the old lady librarian!”

“Yes,” Iwaizumi was rolling his eyes again, “like it’s the old lady librarian.”

This actually gave Matsukawa pause. Okay, so maybe he _had_ been building up an image of the mystery-noter in his head. He didn’t know anything about them. It could be the old lady librarian for all he knew – She was certainly in the library every time he was. All the same, it seemed unlikely.

“I mean… It’s probably not the old lady librarian.”

“Okay, well, what if it’s still a woman then?”

“Then we’ll become the closest of pals.”

“What if it’s an unattractive guy?”

“Then we’ll become the closest of pals.”

“What if it’s an attractive guy?”

“Then we’ll make out. And also become the closest of pals.”

Oikawa snorted and Iwaizumi sighed, nearly at the end of his rope. As much as he loved Matsukawa dearly, he also recognized that while he wasn’t exactly as impulsive and cocksure as his own boyfriend was in most situations, he still acted pretty flippantly about human interaction and avoided investing serious time and effort into them. Since their first meeting in high school, Matsukawa remained the epitome of easy going, letting bad news and uncomfortable situations slide off of his back like water… until he _didn’t_ and he withdrew into himself slowly but surely. It had taken a long while until Matsukawa got over his first romantic rejection and now he breezed through the university scene giving few new friendships a chance. He _was_ an adult, however, and what were best friends for if not consolations and commiseration after bad days?

“Just make sure you’re both consenting adults and I don’t give a shit what you do with each other. Now go away and sell your bullshit French poetry, you con-man,” Iwaizumi shooed him with his hands.

Matsukawa was grinning, even as he stood up and winked at Iwaizumi with a finger to his lips. “Quiet! Can’t let anyone hear that before I finish at 3pm today!”

* * *

Over the course of the week, he made 5700 yen, which really wasn’t bad _at all_ for the minimal effort. Besides, it was 3:10 and soon he’d find out who his secret admirer was. He was excited. He hadn’t been so excited to meet another human in months, not even when he knew he could harass Oikawa for something stupid. As the designated gym building came into view, Matsukawa chuckled down at Oikawa’s very aggressive all-caps text reminder to “CALL AS SOON AS YOU CAN!”

But when he arrived at the doors to the gym, he found himself alone. He leant against the brick of the wall, breathing through his nose in an attempt to calm down. How long was he supposed to wait? Was everything just a joke? Wasn’t that a little cruel at this point? They dropped off a poem to him every afternoon all week. Surely they’d come.

At 3:30, the doors opened, startling him. He spun around to see a woman of his height leaning out, looking both ways.

“Ah! Are you waiting for someone?”

“Uh,” he began, “yeah. They told me to meet them here like, fifteen minutes ago. I’m going to leave now.” Ugh, mortifying. Either this nice woman who based on her outfit had dipped out of basketball practice early was his mysterious poet or he’d just told her he’d been stood up.

“Sorry! I got caught up in practice,” she smiled and bent forward at him in apology, blowing her fringe off her forehead.

Oh, well, there it is. New friends are a good thing. Matsukawa definitely wasn’t at all disappointed that this was a very tall brunette playing basketball and not a mischievous looking dude with a smirk who preferably had some knowledge and experience with volleyball and also liked making out with other dudes. Not in the slightest. Zero disappointment.

“This is for you,” she held out a folded piece of paper to him with a smile, then dashed back inside when he took it from her. Glancing down, he frowned. It wasn’t entirely in French this time. Sure, it started with another set of lines in French, but then had a few extra lines in Japanese. He read through the words a second time before he breathed a sigh of relief, pushing away his disappointment and calling Oikawa.

**_Come to the house party tonight at the address below. Read this poem in your very best French at exactly 9:00. I’ll see you there. Promise._ **

* * *

Matsukawa had met Futakuchi a handful of times, both in high school as their volleyball competition and at the house parties he occasionally hosted. As he walked in with Oikawa, Iwaizumi, Bokuto, and an unusually excited Akaashi, Matsukawa surveyed the room to find the alcohol. He would never get through this night without something to distract him and to stop him becoming a singular, gigantic ball of nerves in the next hour. He had to get going _now_.

At the kitchen counter lined with bottles of varying shapes and sizes, he found Futakuchi in conversation with Kuroo.

“Oh ho! Look at this, Futakuchi, here comes Tokyo’s next Businessman of the Year!”

“Fuck off, Kuroo,” Matsukawa laughed out with a grin, bowing at him anyway. “Give me a drink!”

“So eager,” he snickered. “How did the week go?”

“Not bad! I’ve got plenty of snack money now, if nothing else.”

“What’s that?” came the query from Futakuchi, raising an eyebrow. “What business have you started?”

By the time Matsukawa successfully laid out how his scheme came around, Futakuchi was handing him a cup, laughing along with Kuroo. “A toast, to Tokyo’s next Businessman of the Year!” The three cups met as they laughed, Futakuchi’s drunken tap a little stronger than anticipated, causing the drink to slosh over the edge onto his shirt. “Ah, fuck. Be back once I change. Enjoy!”

Kuroo eyed Matsukawa skeptically as he downed his drink. “Aren’t you going a little fast there, Matsukawa?”

He cringed. He didn’t particularly want Kuroo to know what was going on, but he’d probably get a kick out of it and support him on his quest, so that’d be reassuring, at least. Unlike Oikawa and Iwaizumi, those dicks. “Well, I’ve got an hour to gain enough courage via these fine drinks to be able to read a French poem that a mysterious person wrote for me. It was their last request after giving me a new note every day this week when I finished the hour at the library.”

Kuroo’s eyebrows were sky high as Matsukawa pulled the five notes out of his back pocket and handed them over.

“I can’t read these,” Kuroo huffed, giving them a cursory glance.

“Yeah, neither can I,” commiserated Matsukawa, taking the papers back to stuff into his pocket again. “Akaashi translated them for me.”

“What are you reading out tonight then?”

“Not a clue. Figured I’d wing it and it wouldn’t matter. The person said they’d be here and they’d talk to me after, right? So… I don’t need to know what I’m saying, just need to say it.”

Still dubious of the whole thing, Kuroo refilled his cup, slapped him on the back, and then was off with a snicker and a whispered “good luck!” Not 15 seconds later, he felt Kuroo tapping his shoulder again. Ugh, come on, he hadn’t been nearly supportive enough for Matsukawa to not feel annoyed at it. 

“Oh fuck _off_ , Kuroo, what do -” That was _not_ Kuroo he was looking at when he turned around. A guy he didn’t know with hair dyed a light pink was staring at him with one thin eyebrow raised. “Uh. You’re… not Kuroo. Sorry.”

“It’s cool. I just wanted to ask if you’d pass me the cranberry juice.”

“Ah. Sure.” Matsukawa reached for it and handed it over. The newcomer nodded his thanks and then furrowed his brow as he tried to one handedly pour the juice into his cup. “Let me help?”

He cringed immediately when he saw the guy’s eyes turn toward him. He couldn’t help it if he just wanted to talk a bit, really, it’s not like there was anything else to do until 9 and he might as well be sociable and help out an attractive stranger, like the very helpful young man his mother raised him to be.

“To apologize. For telling you to fuck off.” He took the offered carton and peered over into the cup, filling it carefully and missing the smirk drawing across the Captain Pastel’s admittedly nice face.

“Thanks, I guess. I’m Hanamaki.” Their eyes met again, drinks solidly in hand. Hanamaki seemed kind of … _dashing_ , for some reason.

“A pleasure. Call me Matsukawa. How do you know Futakuchi?”

“Oh, we had a lab together our first year. He’s a snarky asshole, but he’s _occasionally_ funny and always hospitable, so what can you do.” He grinned and Matsukawa felt his mouth mirroring it without meaning to.

“It’s unfortunate we can’t all be those perfect, hospitable, funny-at- _all_ -times snarky assholes.”

“Too right, Matsukawa. I guess some people _do_ need something to aspire to.”

“Sure, yeah. Even the field a bit, make sure at least _some_ people have to work at things every so often so they don’t get complacent. I hear you.”

“So how’s that going for you?”

“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you want to know how my perfection is also going, and not that there’s any suggested complacency.”

Hanamaki snickered. “Why’s that?”

Matsukawa let his eyes trail over Hanamaki from head to toe once more as obviously as he could. Purely for the entertainment factor, of course. “Because you look pretty _perfect_ to me.”

A snort. The most charming snort to have ever been snorted. “I see.”

Hanamaki’s eyes were sparkling as he grabbed Matsukawa’s sleeve and pulled him over to an empty chair across the room, nudging him towards the seat with a bump of his hip. “I’ll allow it.”

An over-the-top gasp. “Perfect _and_ kind.” Matsukawa dramatically grabbed at his chest before plopping into the chair. “I’m _so_ lucky.”

Hanamaki was across his lap an instant later, one arm around his shoulder. Matsukawa’s hand slid around his waist and held him in position firmly, pleasantly surprised by the turn of events. As Hanamaki leaned in close, his hot breath fanned out along the side of his neck. “You _are_ , aren’t you?”

Matsukawa inhaled sharply and ignored the goosebumps that broke out across his skin. On purpose. He definitely did it on purpose. Total control of all bodily functions at the moment.

“Yeah. It’s why I’m always up all night.” No response. “You know, I’m… up all night..." Add in some eyebrow wiggles for emphasis. "... to get lucky.”

Hanamaki let out an incredulous laugh. “ _Yikes_. Really?”

“Come on, that was great!”

“That song is _old_. Who even are you?”

Alright, keep on with the dry humor and sarcasm. Let the charm bomb explode. “A very out of touch dude who likes Top 40 from the early 2010s, apparently.”

Another snort that made Matsukawa feel like anything _but_ the type of dude he’d just described himself as.

“Wow. I could even _feel_ the ginger sunglasses guy from CSI delivery of the joke.”

“This is the first Friday night in my entire life that I haven’t spent marathoning CSI alone at home in my boxers, covered in Dorito crumbs.”

“What about when you finish all the episodes?”

“I just start over again. I’m a very exciting man, Hanamaki. I’d understand if you were feeling a little intimidated.”

“Are you going lead me on an exciting adventure this evening, Mr. Intimidating?”

“Only if assuredly _excellent_ dancing to ‘Thrift Shop’ is the kind of exciting adventure you’re looking for.”

This was awesome. Matsukawa felt like he was on top of the world while Hanamaki flirted with him, smiling his slightly lopsided smile and laughing his cute warm laughter with abandon on his lap.

“Actually, I hope you won’t be leaving any time soon. I hear there’s going to be quite the spectacle in this room at 9.”

“Oh, is that so?” Hanamaki was smiling slyly at him, like he had a secret. Matsukawa wanted to find out what it was.

* * *

“Right, so,” Matsukawa cleared his throat. The clock struck 9 and he handed his cup to Hanamaki, who stood and watched him walk to the center of the room with a smirk fitted across his stupid sexy face. The past hour had passed like nothing, joking around and flirting with Hanamaki, with Matsukawa enjoying his weight on his legs and the way his cheeks had turned considerably pinker as they continued drinking. All he had to do now to give the most blasé delivery possible of this French nonsense, meet his Unknown Entity and get a number so they could, as he had assured Oikawa and Iwaizumi previously, become best pals or lovers, and then steal away Hanamaki’s attention for the rest of the evening.

“Excuse me everyone. If I could have your attention for a few moments. I’m Matsukawa. I’ve been asked to read something. Please enjoy and hold your applause til the end.” He flapped the paper around in some sort of attempt at dramatic flourish, willed his ears not to turn red, and then began:

_Quelle bêtise et quelle connerie !_

_Je suis qu’un sot_

_Surtout idiot_

_Trop chiant_

_Completement fou_

_Mais tout ce que je suis_

_Ce n'est que ton croissant d’enfer_

Confused laughter and clapping started only _after_ Matsukawa rounded out his performance with a long bow. No offense taken. When he stood to walk away, Futakuchi was already holding out a hand to stop him from leaving.

“Just – You – What – ”Futakuchi was laughing too hard to even get a proper sentence out. Matsukawa rolled his eyes goodnaturedly and grinned, patting him gently on the back. After far too long, he seemed to have calmed down enough to speak.

“Oh _man_ , Matsukawa. I have _no_ idea what the _fuck_ you were doing, but you come back to any party you want if you’re gonna do embarrassing shit like _that_ for our entertainment.” Futakuchi wiped at his eyes. “ _Shit_.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Ah. Right, then! I have something for you.”

Matsukawa felt his heart stop. In the post-performance embarrassment and his minimal levels of concern for Futakuchi’s physical wellbeing, he’d forgotten. _The Unknown Entity_. They were here. Who was it? Where were they? Was Futakuchi going to lead him to them? Oh man, did Matsukawa hope it wasn’t _Futakuchi_ …

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. This is for you. My room is up the stairs, second door on the left.” Seeing Matsukawa’s grin, he had the good humor to continue. “Fuck on the floor and not my bed, at least, don’t be gross.” Futakuchi stuck a neon pink post-it on his chest, clapped him on the shoulder, and walked away laughing and muttering “shit” under his breath while chuckling.

Hands shaking, Matsukawa ripped the sticky paper off his shirt and furiously read.

 **Wait 60 seconds. Then come to Futakuchi’s room.**

This was happening, this was happening, this was happening.

“ _Mattsun_!” Oikawa suddenly appeared in front of him, dragging Iwaizumi by the hand. “Mattsun, what does it say!” He practically squealed in excitement, rocking forward on his toes as he tried to read the sticky note and waving Iwaizumi’s hand back and forth with his energy overflow.

“What the _fuck_ did you even just do, Matsukawa?” Iwaizumi couldn’t hide the laugh in his voice enough to make his scorn believable.

“He probably doesn’t want to know, honestly,” came Akaashi’s voice.

“That took guts, man,” admired Bokuto.

His four friends stood in front of him, varying degrees of amused – or in Oikawa’s case, chomping at the bit and trying to grab the note out of his hand.

“Oh my, Mattsun! The _bedroom_?”

“ _Scandaleux_.” Probably as sassy as Akaashi ever really got around him. Matsukawa owed him a drink for that.

“Do you want a mint?”

“Maybe a shot is a better option, Bokuto.”

“Iwa-chan, are you just going to let our child go - ” Oikawa’s voice dropped to a whisper - “ _have sexual relations_ – in a friend’s room at a party?”

“ _Our_ _child?_ Jesus, Oikawa.”

“I _raised_ Mattsun!”

“Okay, so does that note say you’re going to bone, or what?”

“Do you have any idea what you called yourself in French? It was pretty funny.”

The friends had been talking over each other around Matsukawa for so long that Futakuchi actually came back.

“I hate to be _that guy_ who interrupts-”

“You’re so full of shit, Futakuchi,” said Iwaizumi.

“Okay, so I don’t care at all, but I _would_ hate for Matsukawa to miss shooting his shot because I am pretty sure that note I gave him said 60 seconds.”

“Bless you, Futakuchi,” Matsukawa bowed. “A true hero of our time.”

And then he was off, pushing through people and dashing up the stairs. First door, second door. He burst into the room to … find it empty. _Again_. He let out a strangled cry of frustration, tilted his head back, and sighed. Would it be weird of him to like, check the closet or something? Maybe. Would he do it anyway? Yep.

As he walked over towards the door on the far side of the room, Matsukawa saw a spot of pink out of the corner of his eye. There, attached to the lamp, was another neon post it. He grabbed it, smiling.

**You should freshen up. The bathroom is downstairs.**

He grinned, relieved that these notes were no longer in French – the person clearly knew he didn’t know the language in the first place. Once Matsukawa dashed out of the room and had avoided tumbling down the staircase, he got directions from the very tall, stoic old Dateko middle blocker – who just silently pointed him down the hallway. The handle was locked, so he tried pounding on the door.

“Occupied!” God damn it.

“Hurry up! Come on! I gotta get in there!”

20 seconds later, the door ripped open as a thoroughly unimpressed woman exited, scowling at him.

“Fuck you.”

“No thanks!”

He made it inside, eyes darting around everywhere trying to find more bright pink. He checked the medicine cabinet, behind the towels hanging on the back of the door, and even the window sill. He threw back the shower curtain and there it was, on the far wall of the tub.

**Take a look in the mirror, you sexy thing.**

Fucking _ridiculous_. He laughed, happy, then took the note with him as he walked back outside, eyes ever hunting for another post it. The blonde woman who he’d already offended blocked his path down the hallway and sighed.

“For you,” she rolled her eyes and shoved past him, after handing him a new sticky note.

**You look like a total nerd running around with post-its. Go read a book, nerd. **

Matsukawa’s face looked pinker than usual, a combination of alcohol and his excitement as he rushed from room to room looking for another pink post-it and his mystery person. A bookcase, maybe? Probably?

“Futakuchi! Have you got a bookshelf?”

“There’s one in the living room, by the TV!” the host shouted in return from another room.

**This is a hell of a lot of fun, don’t you think? So is vodka.**

Now in the crowded front room, he peeled the note off the side of the bookcase and spun around, beelining toward the kitchen and the bottle laden counter he’d first visited upon arrival. The third bottle of Svedka was the one he needed.

**Do you like sweets? Or are you a savory snack kind of guy?**

"I'm famished! Anyone know where some snacks are?" One of the kind gentlemen otherwise entertaining a very busty woman pointed him out of the kitchen. 

On the table he found in the dining area, there were bowls of chips and popcorn. A tray of pot brownies, a plate of cookies, and things he didn’t even recognize – what was that pyramid covered in snow? Didn’t matter, he saw the pink square hanging off the ridge of a bowl of potato chips. He took a handful of chips and dropped them in his mouth, wiping his hand on his jeans before taking the note.

**I like profiteroles.**

“The _fuck_ is a profiterole?” he muttered to himself. Then, louder: “Hey, Akaashi? What the fuck is a profiterole?”

“Well, you actually mix the flour and melted butter in a pot on the stove, the same way you make eclairs! That keeps it quite airy and light, so when you pipe them out they’ll expand and puff out with a cavity in the middle that you can fill. Usually with pastry crea-”

“A pastry, got it.” Akaashi was frowning at him, oops. Matsukawa gave his winningest smile. “Thanks, Akaashi! You're the best!” He could've sworn he heard a yell of agreement coming from somewhere else in the room.

In the back of displayed snacks, he saw the snow covered pyramid. Shrugging, Matsukawa went for it and lifted up the tray. Jackpot.

**See you on the back porch. :)**

* * *

“No way,” Matsukawa breathed out when he walked outside and he saw just who stood leaning against the railing of the porch, one hand holding a profiterole that he must have snagged from the snacks table and the other thrown up in a peace sign.

“Hey,” came Hanamaki’s voice, lopsided grin on his face as he licked some powdered sugar off his lip. “ _Coucou,_ _mon_ _croissant d’enfer_.”

“No fucking _way_. Really?”

“Yep,” he replied, releasing the ‘p’ particularly loudly. “Surprised?”

“Totally. How fucking sneaky! I really thought you just coincidentally needed the cranberry juice earlier.”

“It was a coincidence about the drink, actually. When I recognized you as The Library Entrepreneur, I figured I might as well talk with you a bit and see how we got on. I figured we’d be fine based on your unbelievably stupid made up translations of those poems – very creative, very funny – but… Can you blame me? I was too intrigued.”

Matsukawa felt very nearly _giddy_ , he was quite embarrassed to realize. This entire _Thing_ had been strange and exciting, what with the daily notes, the foreign language, the bizarre combination of poetry and goofy insults, the rush of a performance in front of a room of peers, and the dashing through the house on a scavenger hunt for the most visually assaulting stickynotes he’d ever imagined. Even if it hadn’t been Hanamaki orchestrating the whole shebang, he’d have been pleased with how the evening went. As it was, this exceeded all his expectations.

“I can’t believe it was you! The utter _gall_! To slyly hit on me as soon as you saw me, with me none the wiser to our connection! So _bold,_ Hanamaki!” Matsukawa wasn’t sure if he was still keeping his voice jokingly admonishing or just sounded kind of awed and smitten at this point. “I’m impressed.”

“Just call me The Enigma Machine.” Hanamaki winked and shot some finger guns at him before Matsukawa took two large steps forward and the remaining distance between them disappeared.

“Then you can call me Turing.”

Matsukawa watched Hanamaki’s tongue dart out to slide across his lip again, pulling his own eyes down to watch the movement.

“Nah, I’ll stick to _croissant d’enfer_ if that’s cool with you.”

“It _might_ be,” he trailed off. Then he leaned in close, breathing against Hanamaki’s neck the way he had done to him earlier. “What’s it mean?”

Hanamaki flushed, all semblance of coolheaded, suave flirtation replaced by his sudden shyness. “Well, it’s like… it’s like a devilish... croissant. A croissant from hell.” He was suddenly so embarrassed that he said it like it was a question instead of giving a proper translation.

Matsukawa didn’t last 3 seconds before bursting into laughter, throwing his head back in delight. He had found a totally ridiculous human. This was going to be awesome.

Groaning, Hanamaki leaned forward to bonk his head on Matsukawa’s shoulder a few times. “When I first wrote it, I thought it was _cute_ , okay?”

Still laughing, Matsukawa managed to respond lowly as he admired the blush across Hanamaki’s cheeks and nose, letting the words rumble from his chest. “Yeah, _some_ one’s cute alright…”

“It’s the old lady librarian, isn’t it?”

Matsukawa dropped his head in his hands and groaned. Mood killed. “Why does everyone want me to end up with the old lady librarian? I don’t _get_ it! Stop it. Like, I’m sure she’s lovely, alright, always checks out my research books for me with a smile and all. But I don’t want to make out with the old lady librarian!"

“Oh?” Hanamaki seemed to be fighting back a smile when Matsukawa looked at his face again. “You wanna make out with someone?”

“Yeah,” Matsukawa swallowed, “I hear they’re an _enigma_.”

“That’s unfortunate, cause I’m _pretty_ sure enigmas don’t have corporeal manifestations, Matsuk-”

A strangled cry burst from Matsukawa's lips for the second time that night, his exasperation hitting its boiling point. “Just shut the fuck up and let me _kiss_ you, you snarky, sexy jerk!”

As he leaned down and reached out to touch his warm cheeks, he enjoyed the feeling of Hanamaki’s arms slipping around his shoulders to draw him closer. His thumb rubbed over the side of his mouth, dusting away some powdered sugar. When Hanamaki fell silent, eyes alarmingly wide and flickering between his own eyes and mouth, Matsukawa gave him his most charming grin and whispered a quiet “thanks” before meeting his lips in a kiss.


End file.
